


In Regards to Gates and Roses

by finprop



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, guardian angel-based AU/canon divergent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finprop/pseuds/finprop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein God is as always unpredictable and Lucifer grows unhealthily over-protective of a human child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sam Winchester

**Author's Note:**

> None of this could have been done without the help of my amazing friend Aldro! She played a major role in the creation of this piece here and is simply a wonderful support in general. This work is dedicated to her.

His name is Sam Winchester.

 

Lucifer’s head snaps up, eyes wide, staring blank but with impregnable focus at the ice covered walls of his Cage as his Grace stretches and bends to recapture whatever in Hell just exploded into existence.

 

His name is Sam Winchester, he is Lucifer’s vessel, the One, the _chosen_ , and he has just been born.

 

A chaos of sensations—emotions, as humans would call them, but that’s a filthy ape word and Lucifer refuses to use it—envelope Lucifer’s being, pinning him to the cold, flat sheet of frost behind him and causing his Grace to flare and spin wildly in the tight confinements of the Pit. His Grace, his very _reality_ has bloomed back into life after eons of reclusion and despondency, thrumming excitedly and pushing impatiently at the solid walls around him. The Cage is cruel and keeps him contained, but he assumes that’s for the better. A great deal of Hell would be destroyed by the sheer intensity of every fiber of Lucifer’s existence roaring back into gear if the Cage couldn’t fully restrain him. It can’t completely—he’s still _Lucifer_ , and his Father is merciful, albeit barely—but it has its cracks, enough for Lucifer to _know_ what has just been created, just for him. Lucifer feels Hell buzz with enthusiasm, hears the demons scream with joy and he grins wryly.

 

It has begun.

 

~*~

 

By the human measurement of time, Sam Winchester has turned five years old. The cracks in the Cage aren’t wide enough to project an image of Sam’s appearance, but Lucifer’s Grace can seep just so through to feel the soft, new brightness of Sam’s soul and how it flutters with happiness. For a fallen angel who has spent an incalculable amount of time with the bare nothingness of the Cage and the numb absence of Heaven, he finds this bareable for the moment. (Human’s call this, “beggars can’t be choosers,” and it sickens Lucifer to employ an ape phrase, but it’s surprisingly accurate.)

 

That, however, does not mean it still doesn’t infuriate him.

 

Lucifer has an ugly habit of annihilating the demons who stop by and whisper bits and pieces of information to him. Sam Winchester’s hair is chestnut brown— _shut up he’s mine_ —his eyes are hazel— _he’s meant to only see **me**_ —the skin of his cheeks dent in once on each side when he smiles— _they’re called dimples and you’re not allowed to look_ —oh, the list mounts as high as the demon death toll. It should frighten the demons but they’re servile enough to accept it, possibly even happily. Demons are pathetic.

 

Today is Sam Winchester’s fifth birthday and a reminder that God’s mercy is ever unpredictable.

 

Lucifer is shell-shocked, to say the least. He thought his Father was gone—that had been the rumor, and it frightened Lucifer for the longest time—but the indescribable sense of God’s presence suddenly filling every crater and notch that peppered Lucifer’s fallen and fractured Grace obliterated that gossip.

 

“Father,” Lucifer is on his feet, the stained, ruined remains of his wings twitching behind him with nervous curiosity. God says nothing, simply reaches forward and touches the ice plated wall separating them. The portion of the Cage God tapped melts away and Lucifer finds himself stumbling forward involuntarily. God catches him—Lucifer’s Grace sings beautifully—and adjusts him back onto stable ground.

 

“You have a new purpose now,” God says, moving away from Lucifer. “Sam Winchester.”

 

Lucifer is no longer in Hell. God has vanished, but Lucifer doesn’t bother to search for him as he knows it’s useless. The body of a man named Nick tethers him to the human plane, and he blinks. He pushes himself onto Nick's elbows, rolls Nick’s neck, clenches and unclenches his hands, testing, then surveys his surroundings.

 

He’s lying on soft grass, the branches and leaves of the large tree hanging above him casting cool shadows across his face and skin, random fractals of sunlight filtering through and warming his cheeks. There’s a sound of quiet scurrying accompanied by excited little pants growing steadily louder, and when Lucifer turns his head, he finds a small boy scampering up to his side. The boy is smiling, teeth small and white and his chubby cheeks dented with dimples. His eyes are large, hazel, his hair is a wild mess of chestnut brown curls and he has some dark brown colored substance smeared all over his mouth and chin. He looks blindingly happy, wriggling with mirth, and he’s breathing heavily. He swings his arms and his smile turns a little shy. Lucifer might’ve thought it adorable could he think past the sudden upward vault of his Grace’s octave of intensity matched with the inexpressible feeling of wholeness that devours him.

 

“Hi, I’m Sam,” the boy greets, holding out a chubby hand. “Wha’s your name?”


	2. First Impressions and Immunities

Lucifer discovers immediately that Sam Winchester is an exception.

 

Humans are vile, defective, an insult and a blemish on the beautiful canvas his Father had so artfully created. They’re a termite devouring the foundation. They’re _apes_.

 

Sam, however, is not. Of course he isn’t; he’s the one creature made specifically for Lucifer; ever hole, every lacking feature, the very notch shaped specifically for the Devil, Lucifer can slot into those imperfections and makes them just and divinely right once again. Even with that thin membrane separating the two—one simple word, a single syllable, but Sam is far too young or even remotely ready for such a thing—the connection is still there, fiery and real, and it makes Lucifer’s very being hum. Funny thing is, the tiny little thing hasn’t even touched him yet.

 

“I’m Lucifer,” Lucifer responds with a smile, lifting his own hand and wrapping it around Sam’s. There’s a spark, a small snap of electric _something_ that buzzes and pops when roughened skin meets soft, delicate chub. Sam squeaks in surprise but doesn’t pull his back. Lucifer smiles a little wider and gives Sam’s hand a shake, once. It’s cute how merely Lucifer’s palm completely envelopes Sam’s tiny little hand, a reminder, almost, that Sam is so _young_.

 

Lucifer drops his hand and Sam stares at his own, curious. “What was that?” He asks, turning his hand from side to side thoughtfully.

 

Lucifer hesitates, searches for a word to fit Sam’s limited vocabulary. “Well, I _am_ an angel,” he settles with, and offers an awkward smile at his own choice of words. (In Lucifer’s defense, that’s all that comes to mind; he is an angel of the Lord that has lived since the dawn of time, and Sam is a five year old human child who doesn’t know how to read yet. Explaining the complex intrinsic divinity and fate that bonds them together in a language simple enough for a small human child to understand is practically impossible, so no manner of straightforward explanation arises to mind aside from painful bluntness.)

 

Sam’s eyes widen and his mouth parts in shock. “An _angel_?” He whispers breathlessly. Lucifer’s chest swells with pride.

 

“Yes, Sam, an angel,” Lucifer assures. Sam’s face explodes with a brilliant smile and he quickly drops onto the ground beside Lucifer, shifting and hurriedly adjusting himself into a sitting position of crossed legs and hands placed carefully in his lap. He sits straight, chin tilted upwards in an obediently attentive fashion that reminds Lucifer dimly of a seraph.

 

“Do you have wings?” Sam asks. Lucifer’s throat tightens and he forces a smile. _You don’t need to see something like that, Sam_.

 

“But of course,”

 

“Can I see ’em?”

 

Lucifer shakes his head, his forced smile tingeing with bitter sadness. “I’m sorry, Sam, but not now,”

 

Sam frowns—it looks more like a pout, really—and lifts his hands off his lap to fold his arms stubbornly across his chest. “That’s not fair, Luficer,”

 

Lucifer snorts. “My name’s _Lucifer_ , Sam, not ‘Luficer.’”

 

Sam’s pout deepens and he looks adorably annoyed. “Nuh-uh, you’re name’s Luficer, and that’s final!” He nods once, definite, and Lucifer can’t help but chuckle. He finds it even harder not to right out laugh the way Sam’s face contorts with righteous five year old fury, and to save himself as well as avoid having Sam break under some shape of unhappiness, Lucifer gives Sam’s head an affectionate pat.

 

“My name’s not Luficer, but alright. You can call me that,” Lucifer says, but his somewhat-not-really surrender does nothing. Sam makes a little “humph!” noise and directs his angry glower toward the poor bark of the nearby tree, making a great deal of his exasperation to prove a _point_. Oh, the Devil has never been more amused.

 

“Are you mad at me, Sam?” Lucifer questions gently and Sam nods fiercely.

 

“Yeah! Really, really mad!”

 

Lucifer grins, lifts himself a little further on his elbows. “Well, Sam—”

 

“Sammy!” The voice is young, possibly just a little older than Sam. Lucifer grimaces. Sam is an exception, but otherwise, Lucifer hates children. Humans in general, but children are slightly more unbearable. “Sammy, where are you?”

 

“De?” Sam’s head snaps in the opposite direction, eyes wide but undeniably excited. Lucifer feels a stab of jealousy, fingers curling into fists with the heat of it. “De, I’m over here!”

 

“Sam,” Lucifer whispers, but Sam is already on his feet and dashing in the other direction, yelling for this “De” at the top of his lungs. Lucifer hefts a sigh and pushes himself to his feet. Another time, he supposes. He’s gone before Sam can return.

 

“De, De, he’s over here,” Sam shouts, hurrying back as fast as manageable with Dean in tow and the stoutness of his body hindering proper, much less proportional, running. Dean stumbles behind him, powerless under the bubbly persistence of his younger brother, all the while trying to make sense of what Sam’s babbling about.

 

“Who, Sammy?” Dean asks. He yelps as the jut of tree root protruding from the ground trips him and barely manages to get back on steady footing when Sam yanks him to stop. Sam is looking around, a wounded form of confusion screwing his face up into a horrible scowl. Dean straightens and massages his wrist. “Who, Sammy?” He tries again, softer. Sam shakes his hand, raises a small fist to his eye and rubs it hard. Dean sighs; he knows the tell-tale signs of a Sammy-level breakdown like the back of his hand.

 

“He- He was _here_ ,” Sam insists. He sniffs and shakes his head again. His eyes are shining, fat tears welling up at the edges, and he looks up at his brother. “D-De, he was- he said he was a’ angel, De, a—”

 

“S’okay, Sammy,” Dean says, pulling Sam into a protective hug. “I believe you,”

 

“You do?” Sam mumbles against Dean’s shirt. He raises his tiny hands to Dean’s button up and wrap tightly around the fabric. Dean hushes him, strokes Sam’s hair with one hand and his small back with the other, his chest constricting in fault of Sammy so distraught beyond his control.

 

“’Course I do,” Dean assures and plants a kiss atop Sam’s soft brown curls. Sam whimpers, small arms flinging around Dean’s frame and hugging him tight. Dean holds him as he cries, struggling after a while not to break down himself. Sam is sad and Dean can’t do anything to help him. He’s a horrible big brother.

 

Hidden in the background and away from the human spectrum of observation, Lucifer is conflicted. He faintly remembers these sensations described as “guilt” in addition to a bit of “melancholy” but with a definite and overwhelming surge of _anger_ , though whether it be towards this puny child Sam so desperately clings to or himself, Lucifer can’t yet distinguish. He can’t really explain why he’d feel these unpleasant sensations towards himself really, but he has his assumptions.

 

Sam _is_ an exception, after all.


	3. Sometimes You Need Surgery, But Now Is Not One of Those Times

It isn’t until a few months later that Lucifer makes a second appearance. He’d anticipated Sam to be angry, but the amount of irrational rage bundled in the small, prepubescent body ranks a few notches above his area of expectation.

 

Catching an opportunity to find Sam without his brother or father has proven to be a particularly cumbersome obstacle. Sam and Dean are mistakenly attached at the hip and although the father’s disappearances are often and lengthy, he has been sticking around for the past few weeks. New hunts in different states with a jump of frequency judging from the amount of moving he’s been putting his children through.

 

Eventually, after twelve years—no, two and a half months (Lucifer is still on Hell Time; human’s describe this as “jet lag,” but the term is only partially correct) of zero chances and a grand sum of exasperation and stress withering away at his patience, Lucifer turns to Sam’s subconscious for an occasion.

 

In reality, Lucifer is sitting in a room two doors away from Sam’s—motels are foul and Lucifer feels dirty just sitting in one—but to the latter, he has materialized on the bed beside him. Sam jumps, glances up at Lucifer in shock, and a brief flash of confliction darkens his expressions before his mouth twists in rage and he tosses his stuffed dog at Lucifer. It flies straight through the Devil, connecting loudly with the wall behind him. Dean flinches in his seat next to the TV and snaps a look in Sam’s direction. “What’s wrong, Sammy?”

 

“That meanie angel is back!” Sam yells, stabbing an accusatory finger in Lucifer’s direction. Dean frowns; Sam’s glowering at nothing, but he’s in a state where humoring is the only option if Dean wants to avoid upsetting him further.

 

“Well, tell him to go away,” Dean tries. It must be another one of Sam’s imaginary friends; Dean had a few before he became a big kid and having one is now considered weird, but Sammy’s still little so that’s okay. And if Sammy is midst of a dispute with his imaginary friend, Dean can’t do much as aside from what he’s doing now.

 

“You heard ’im, go away!” Sam shouts, folding his arms and pouting.

 

Lucifer sighs and leans back against the wall. “Is that any way to treat your dog?” He glances down at the stuffed animal on the floor. Sam’s eyes expand in horror and he flings himself onto the ground to scoop the toy dog into his arms. He cradles it protectively against his chest and glares at Lucifer. “Oggy jus’ went into surgery, so he’s okay. Dean’s a super good doctor. He helped Oggy all better so he don’t— doesn’t need any more surgery,” Sam explains, stroking “Oggy’s” faded brown head lovingly and giving it a kiss. “See? He’s all better now,”

 

“You’re still mad at me, Sam,” Lucifer observes.

 

Sam nods and crawls back onto the bed. “Uh-huh, really mad,” he affirms, crossing his legs and adjusting Oggy in his lap. Lucifer sighs and folds his arms across his chest.

 

“May I ask why you are mad at me, Sam?”

 

“’Cause you’re a meanie,” Sam answers in a factual tone, as if it’s glaringly obvious. Lucifer huffs resignedly and leans forward so that his elbows rest on his knees.

 

“What can I do to make it so that you’re not mad at me anymore?” Lucifer asks. He almost wants to hate this and a part of him does, but it’s not for the reasons he would’ve formerly assumed. It has nothing to do with Sam’s species; it’s _Sam_.

 

“I wanna see you’re wings,”

 

Lucifer blinks in shock, but his brain manages to bridge the synapses in his brain that control speaking and manage his lips and voice to function, form the words, “No, Sam,”

 

“Why not?” Sam demands. He slams his stuffed dog onto the bed and glares up at Lucifer. It’s absolutely embarrassing, but Lucifer cringes under it, just slightly. Shades of anger, betrayal—if you’d call it that, though Lucifer is finding that small children are melodramatic enough to where such an emotion, while unnecessary given the situation, is anticipated—and hurt give Sam’s hazel eyes an ominous shimmer. The threat of tears hangs heavy on the horizon, and Lucifer feels…“guilty.” He doesn’t want to think what he’ll feel if Sam actually starts crying. The Devil bites his lip, considering. _That’s dangerous ground, Sammy_.

 

“Because…” He dives blindly for a word and opens his mouth, “I’m hurt.” It’s not necessarily a lie, not really. It’s more of a half-truth. He could never lie to Sam.

 

Sam’s expression softens and he carefully picks up his stuffed Oggy. “Do you need surgery?” He whispers.

 

Lucifer laughs, though it’s comes out more so as an acerbic bark. There’s no amusement, and any previous mirth that had illuminated his eyes is absent, leaving them empty and dark. Sam scowls, glancing up from his dog. He adjusts Oggy’s ears absently. “Wha’s wrong?”

 

Lucifer shakes his head, a harsh smile finding its way onto his lips. The acrimony pulls his mouth thin, and he glances off. “No, Sam,” he mutters. “I don’t need surgery.” He’s avoiding Sam’s question but the child doesn’t seem to notice. Sam carefully places Oggy next to Lucifer’s thigh and smiles up at him, dimples and white teeth. Lucifer’s heart twangs painfully.

 

“S’okay. Surgery’s a big deal, only if you’re dying. So maybe you need a Band-Aid or someone to kiss your boo-boo,” Sam reasons nonchalantly.

 

Lucifer snorts at Sam’s pick of vocabulary. “Yeah, maybe I need a Band-Aid, Sam. Thing is, I don’t own any,” Lucifer says.

 

“Then you need a kiss!” Sam says, throwing his hands in the air excitedly.

 

Lucifer laughs again, though this time, it’s warm, genuine. “You can’t really give me a kiss, Sam,”

 

Sam’s face falls an inch. “Why not?”

 

“I’m not really here at the moment,” he explains, motioning to himself. Sam frowns thoughtfully and lifts a hand to touch Lucifer’s knee. It passes through, rippling the illusion. Sam flinches as if he’s been burned and looks up at Lucifer in shock. “ _Oh_ ,”

 

“Yeah,” Lucifer murmurs solemnly.

 

“Are you a guardian angel?” Sam asks suddenly and Lucifer snaps his head up in surprise.

 

_I am not speechless._ “…You could say that,” Lucifer says slowly.

 

“So—So you protect me an’ stuff?” Sam asks.

 

“Yes,”

 

“An’—An’ you—you fight crime an’ stuff, right? Like a superhero?”

 

Lucifer scowls. “Sure, Sam, like a superhero—”

 

“Sam, who are you talking to?” John calls. His voice is too loud, far too much noise for the tiny, compacted space. Lucifer’s upper lip curls and he’s gone with an air of disgust. Sam blinks, glances around then settles a glower in John’s direction. “You made ’im go away!” Sam fusses. He throws himself under the covers, stuffed Oggy clenched tight in his arms with his face buried in the pillow. John sighs and Dean shrugs when his father glances over for an explanation.


	4. Fear Is Relevant to Every Being

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It helps that I have a five year old sister.

“Wha’s your favorite color?” Sam asks. Sam is lying on the floor, a coloring book pinned under his elbows and a box of 64 crayons in an amorphous pool around him. Lucifer is propped up against the bed, arms folded and legs crossed. John had left for a hunt the night before and Dean has gone out to get a soda. Sam and Lucifer are alone, if for only a moment.

 

“I don’t have one,” Lucifer says. He tilts his head and squints. “What are you coloring?”

 

“A hippobatimius,” Sam says. Lucifer’s scowl deepens. He leans over and examines the picture.

 

“Sam, I think you mean ‘hippopotamus,’” Lucifer says slowly. Sam stills, stares at the picture then shrugs. “Hip-po! Hip-po! Hip-po-pah-tah-bit-tee-mus!” He sings, punctuating each syllable with a blue scribble. He tosses the blue crayon then grabs another, this time green. He colors a tooth of the large animal with precise care.

 

There’s a click, slide of the latch, and the door swings open. Dean stands at the mouth with two cans of soda and a bag of something that smells absolutely disgusting, the foul scented slop contained staining the bottom of the bag. Lucifer’s nose crinkles and Sam glances up. “Hey, Sammy,” Dean calls, stepping inside and closing the door with his foot. Sam grins and hurries to his feet, footsteps landing with a heavy, dull echo on the hollow floor. He’s at Dean’s side in a heartbeat, grabbing at both the sodas balanced in Dean’s one hand and the rank smelling grease stained brown bag clenched in his other.

 

“Whoa, Sammy, calm down. Go sit down and I’ll get the plates. Can you take the sodas?” Dean asks as he hands Sam the two brightly colored cans. Sam nods eagerly with a hum of affirmation and shuffles over to the unsteady table. The wood is fraying— _splinters, Sam_ —one of the legs is crooked, another is balanced atop a phonebook in an attempt to make it stable— _be careful, it could break_ —and the word “death” is scrawled on its top in permanent marker. Lucifer’s jaw tightens in distaste.

 

As Sam climbs into his chair, sodas clasped tight in the bends of his small arms, Dean is ripping open the plastic to a packet of paper plates. “’Kay, so Sammy, I got some burgers, and…”

 

The rest is white noise. Lucifer flits lazily in and out of planes, sometimes fading back into his vessel and other times returning to Sam’s room as a hallucination. After a while, it grows tedious. Sam’s eating, Dean is there, there’s nothing but apes and the charred fragment of his Father’s once beautiful world. It’s boring. He’s bored.

 

“Hey, Luci, are you hungry?” Sam asks. Lucifer cracks open an eye. Sam climbs off his chair, grabs his paper plate off the table and carries it over to Lucifer. He places it carefully on the floor and straightens, hands folded behind his back and a shy smile pulling at his lips. The food looks disgusting but the offering is heartwarming.

 

Lucifer shakes his head. “No, Sam. I don’t eat anyways. I don’t need to,”

 

Sam tilts his head thoughtfully. “’Cause you’re a superhero, right?”

 

Lucifer pats Sam’s head and smiles. “Yeah. I guess so,”

 

“Sam, throw that away if you’re done,” Dean calls. Sam chirps back an affirmation and disposes the offering. Lucifer leans back and sighs contently. This is actually rather nice.

 

~*~

 

Had Lucifer known what it meant to “jinx” something, he would have never thought of things as satisfactory and that they would stay that way. Humans themselves are already fragile and easily broken. Children snap with the slightest misguided touch.

 

John has returned but he reeks of human alcohol and speaks indistinctly, his steps lazy and disgruntled. He’s unstable on his feet, and because of that, Dean is too busy tending to him to notice he’s left the door open and Sam has run away. If those idiots knew, they would’ve thanked Lucifer.

 

Despite his tiny stature, Sam is very fast. Lucifer finds him quickly, but to catch him is a task the Devil would have never thought difficult. Sam currently hides under a car, knees pulled tight up to his chest and his eyes filled with tears. Lucifer crouches awkwardly to peer under at Sam, a worried scowl drawing his face downward.

 

“Sam, come out,” Lucifer says gently, reaching a hand under metal beast in attempt to grab hold of him. A thin, scared whimper peeps from the back of Sam’s throat and he scoots backwards rapidly, staring at Lucifer's hand as if it’s a knife with intentions to cut. Lucifer draws his hand back and sighs. “Sam, please. I can’t protect you if you’re hiding like that,” he murmurs, voice light and soothing. He shushes and coos at him, holding out his hand for Sam to take. After five minutes of working the poor thing, progress is finally made and Sam makes a move towards Lucifer when John decides to take the opportunity and set it on fucking fire.

 

“Hey, who th’fuck er you?” John slurs loudly, stumbling onto the side walk but catching the door frame just before he starts crashing toward the concrete. Sam screeches and bolts from under the car, sobbing frightfully as he scurries away. Lucifer snarls angrily in John’s direction but ignores the urge to rip his throat out in favor of Sam.

 

“Sam!” Lucifer yells, feet slamming onto the concrete after Sam. _Wings, dumbass_ , he reminds himself angrily, and in light of the memory, he’s in front of Sam, catching him in his arms.

 

Everything follows in a loud, blurry succession.

 

A car, the blare of headlights, the screech of its horn and the sound of tires twisting violently against the asphalt shortly after. Lucifer doesn’t think; his wings fling out, cocooning the small child braced tightly to his chest in soft but indestructible feathers as the car smashes into the wall of his Grace that has involuntarily flung up to protect them. The car spins off to the side, the entire bumper and whole front of it smashed and torn. Sam breathes fast and heavy against Lucifer’s chest, his tiny heart thrumming rapidly in his chest. He glances up at Lucifer, looking so damn terrified but relived at the same time. The expression lasts for only a minute before he breaks down in tears and clings to Lucifer chest as if his life depended on it.

 

Sadly, in this case, it did.

 

Lucifer hushes Sam softly, stroking his hair with one hand and holding him up in his other arm as he slowly rises to his feet. Everything’s eerily quiet aside from the soft sizzling of burned rubber, ripped metal and once functioning objects snapping and buzzing before dying off completely. Lucifer tries to pry Sam from his shirt to inspect him for injuries, but he refuses to let go. He sighs.

 

“Are you hurt, Sam?” He asks instead.

 

Sam shakes his head hard and buries it further into Lucifer’s neck.

 

“Do you want me to bring you back?”

 

“No!” Sam shrieks, shaking his head again. “Don’t wanna go b-back! D-Daddy’s scary and suh-suh-smells w-weird, an’—an’ he y-yells, a-an’—”

 

“Shh, Sammy, it’s okay, I’m here. I won’t bring you back, not now at least. You need to, eventually. Dean’s all alone,” Lucifer reminds Sam softly. Sam’s breath stutters and he makes an attempt to speak only to fail and lapse into frightened, uncontrollable sobs. Lucifer comforts him as best he can, even tries humming an old hymn under his breath in hopes to somewhat calm him (it had always worked with the fledglings). It works, albeit slowly. Sam’s shuddering sobs gradually die down to soft, hiccupping whimpers and sniffles. Lucifer smiles fondly and takes a seat at a bench, adjusting Sam so that he sits better in his arms. He takes his chin and inspects him carefully.

 

“You shouldn’t run off like that, Sammy,” Lucifer chides, releasing Sam’s chin and stroking the smooth curve of his cheek with his vessel’s calloused thumb. “It’s dangerous,”

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam apologizes quietly. Lucifer shakes his head.

 

“It’s alright. You didn’t know, but now you do. You scared me, Sam,” Lucifer admits. And he did. Lucifer hasn’t been this terrified since he Fell. It’s not as bad, but the painful chill of fear, although much more subdued, is unforgettable.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers again, his eyes skating off in shame. Lucifer pulls him close, wraps him protectively in his arms and wings, keeping him safe. Sam sighs heavily and presses closer. They sit there for a while in a calm silence, Sam’s breathing evening out and slowing to a drowsy rhythm accompanied with Lucifer’s lack thereof.

 

The small, pudgy hand to Lucifer’s wing shouldn’t have shocked him as much as it did. The little strokes have comforting intentions, but Lucifer remains rigid and surprised.

 

“You don’t need surgery,” Sam whispers through a yawn. “You jus’ need some love. ’M tired,”

 

Lucifer’s mouth opens but closes it shortly after the words fail to form. His stunned quiet continues as he tucks Sam safely into bed. John is passed out on the couch and Dean is asleep in the bed, out cold. Lucifer prefers this situation much better to its far less pleasant alternatives.

 

A small hand catches Lucifer’s collar before he can fully pull away. “I love you, Luci,” Sam mumbles. Lucifer stiffens, speechless. Eventually, sleep takes over Sam and he releases Lucifer’s shirt.

 

Lucifer supports his reasoning for vanishing so quickly off the possibility of the other Winchesters awaking at any moment, but he knows that deeper down, hidden beneath the calloused scar of his soul, lies the real motive: Lucifer’s afraid.

 

But of what he’s still not entirely sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeey, if you like it, I'd love some feedback! You don't have to, though it would be much appreciated. Thank you! There will be more to come soon.


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